


Rainbow

by LeoKitty



Series: Hugo Weasley [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeoKitty/pseuds/LeoKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p>
<p>A year ago, I thought being blind was the biggest of my concerns. But with Rose struggling to recover after a disastrous first year at Hogwarts, and my family coming apart at the seams...</p>
<p>Sequel to <i>Rainfall</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainbow

**Chapter 1 - England versus Ireland**  
   
  
I press close to Mum, unable to hide the fact that the crowd makes me feel uncomfortable. Rose is on Mum's other side in her wheelchair, holding something that might be called a conversation with Dad. Everyone's waiting, chatting aimlessly as the people trickle into the stadium.  
  
We didn't really have to arrive this early - being in the VIP box means far less queuing than for most, and everyone gets out of the way to let Rose’s chair through anyway - but Mum started worrying that we'd be late, and we should allow more time for getting Rose across the campsite.  
  
Rose being in the chair isn't something we're accustomed to, so Mum's concern is understandable. I've been blind all my life, so we're used to that, but it was only a few months ago that an outbreak of Cerebrumous Spattergroit at Hogwarts left Rose physically weak and with massive memory gaps. In a few months, she went from a (pretty much) normal twelve-year-old learning to cope at boarding school to being reliant on other people for everything and having to re-learn even how to walk and talk.  
  
It took her illness to make me realise that I’m not as useless as I always convinced myself I was. And with at least some of the damage being permanent - the healers say they’re looking for a cure and not to give up hope, but they’ve said the same to me enough times and I’m still blind - we’re all going to have to change our ways of life. Mum and Dad have to concentrate on Rose, without having to worry about me. Well, I’ve always hated being treated like I’m different.  
  
Obviously I am different - I still don’t know whether I’ll even be able to go to Hogwarts, because it’s not really set up for the blind, and there’s a big bit of me that’s not sure whether I even want to go. That sounds weird - every magical kid in Britain dreams of the day they’ll finally get to Hogwarts - but I’ve managed to build a life for myself in a muggle school for the blind, where not being able to see doesn’t mean we’re helpless but simply means we have to find different ways to cope - such as using Braille to read and write. I have friends at school, good friends who I don’t want to have to leave behind. And the wizarding world doesn’t have things like Braille and guide dogs.  
  
I worry about the future a lot. I’m kind of torn between two worlds - I don’t quite fit in the wizarding world, but then I have to be really careful around my blind friends not to let anything slip about magic. Maybe this is kind of like how Squibs feel - torn between wizard and muggle worlds.  
  
I drift off into a haze of worry and self-pity, from which I’m jolted suddenly by a magically amplified voice echoing around the stadium. I only manage to catch the end of the announcement, “...Ireland versus England!” The entire stadium roars out approval, though the game hasn’t even begun. Well, the Cup is taking place in Ireland so that’s a home team. And it’s not far at all for England supporters to come to support their - our - own team. So though it’s only a first round match, the atmosphere is similar to or better than that of the final in Patagonia four years ago.  
  
The umpire emerges first, followed by the teams. The names of the Irish players are drowned out by the noise that greets their entry, and the noise barely dies down enough for me to catch the last of the introductions for the English players: “...Raymond, Girton, Bell, aaaand... Alcock!” Of course I know all the names of the England players - Dad and Aunt Ginny wouldn’t have it any other way. But the last name is more familiar than the others, not just because she’s the captain of the national team but because she’s also captain and beater for the Holyhead Harpies. Aunt Ginny has introduced us to most of the Harpies, past and present, at various points over the years.  
  
The balls are released and almost immediately the score begins to climb. Ten-zero, twenty-zero, thirty-zero… “And Sanders has the Quaffle! Passes to Taylor, back to Sanders, Taylor again… well hit bludger from O’Shea, but defended by Alcock, England still in possession, Taylor passes to Sanders… but Sanders dodges another bludger from O’Shea and the Quaffle is loose - Ireland in possession! It’s Lenihan, hurtling down the pitch…”  
  
Irish fans are singing, but the stadium’s too big and there are too many of them to make out either words or tune. “Lenihan to O’Mahony, back to Lenihan - Sanders tries to intercept, but rethinks due to a bludger from Fitzsimons… a bludger redirected by Alcock, Lenihan forced to take evasive action… he’s still speeding towards the hoops, where Girton’s waiting, but it looks like Girton’s confused at something…”  
  
“Lenihan doesn’t have the Quaffle!” yells Dad suddenly. The cheering from the other occupants of the VIP box falters as other people apparently look for themselves.  
  
“Barry in possession!” yells the commentator. “Not sure how that happened, but Girton spotted it just in… no, a split second too late. Barry scores, and that’s forty-zero to Ireland!” The air seems to vibrate with the cheers and applause and foot-stamping. While national pride means I’m not too happy about the score, it’s impossible not to be affected by the high spirits of the Irish.  
  
England eventually scores (after a couple of saves by the Irish keeper), and the cheer that follows can’t just come from the English fans present. By the time the score reaches one hundred and twenty to thirty, both sets of supporters are cheering every time either team scores.  
  
“Lenihan to… no, intercepted by Zephyrus, who immediately passes to Sanders. England have the Quaffle - it’s Sanders, to Taylor… ooh!” The noise level drops immediately, and the referee’s whistle pierces the air. The commentator seems to take a minute to compose himself before continuing.  
  
“That’s a foul, penalty to England - looks like an accident, O’Mahony’s holding up his hands apologetically. Time out while the mediwizards take a look at the damage - that was a nasty collision. The substitute’s ready on the sidelines - but no, Taylor’s getting back on her broom, and back into the air.” Applause and cheering fills the stadium, but the commentator is used to speaking over a lot of noise. “Taylor’s shaking hands and exchanging a few words with O’Mahony, friendly shoulder bump… now that’s good sportsmanship. And Sanders lines up to take the penalty...”  
  
It’s almost alarming, the speed with which the volume level in here can change. Thousands of people wait for the penalty in complete silence, until it’s broken suddenly…  
  
“Sanders scores! That’s Ireland - one hundred and twenty, England - forty!” The stadium erupts ecstatically, music blaring out and adding to the racket. I have to admit it’s nice, the way the atmosphere is so friendly, even if England are losing. Well, it’s the first time in at least thirty years that England have even made it through the group stages, whereas Ireland are regularly in the top four and won the World Cup not all that long ago.  
  
The score keeps ticking up, making it clear that England are hopelessly outmatched. The only way we can win is by catching the snitch - but then most games are decided by who catches the snitch. It can be hard to tell from just the commentary, but I get the impression that despite the score England aren’t embarrassing themselves too badly. Rather, they’re playing very well, but Ireland is in another league. Funny, that they don’t have as many players to choose from and yet they can put together a better team.  
  
“Ireland - one hundred and seventy, England - seventy.” Dad and Aunt Ginny laugh resignedly. “England in possession - it’s Taylor with the Quaffle - ouch!” There’s a groan of sympathy round the entire stadium, and the cheering is replaced with concerned whispers. I wait impatiently to hear what’s happened.  
  
“Well hit Bludger from O’Shea,” says the commentator. “Taylor didn’t really have a hope of dodging that. But she’s held onto the Quaffle!” The cheering rises again, as Taylor apparently speeds towards the Irish hoops. “I don’t know how she’s doing this, because a Bludger hit like that must have done some damage, but this is someone who’ll go down fighting, and she’s putting up quite a fight - and that was close! Bludger from Fitzsimons, fortunately Alcock just got her bat in there in time because I’m not convinced Taylor can take another impact - I’m surprised she took that one. Coming in very high at the hoops, maybe more dazed than we thought - oh! England scores!”  
  
The crowd goes wild. “Ireland - one hundred and seventy, England - eighty! That was clever - Taylor probably isn’t in a state to throw straight, but Sanders flew underneath and Taylor dropped the Quaffle down to her. Barrett wasn’t expecting that, and who would have been? So Sanders scores, and Alcock has called time out.  
  
Conversations start up around the stands, merging together into a low buzz, as we wait for the game to resume. Aunt Ginny is having an animated discussion with one of the Irish officials about something or other - presumably Quidditch. Mum and Dad are talking to Rose, asking her questions and making sure she’s happy. I turn to Lily and ask what’s actually happening on the pitch.  
  
“Alcock and Taylor are having a discussion,” she tells me. “Alcock’s gesturing at the side of the pitch, and Taylor’s nodding - though she doesn’t look very with it, and she’s sitting crooked on her broom. There are mediwizards waiting nearby - when Alcock called the time out, they came straight on and checked on Taylor, and now they’re waiting for the conversation to finish - um, Alcock’s waving her arms about a bit, I think signalling something to someone at the side of the pitch…”  
  
She’s interrupted by the commentator. “England are making a substitution. Taylor is coming off, replaced by reserve Chaser Hassan.” As Taylor apparently makes her way off, someone cheers, and then everyone else joins in cheering and applauding. Suddenly I realise that the rest of the VIP box are getting to their feet, and I do too so as not to be the only one left seated.  
  
The game resumes, the score climbing higher and higher, and without Taylor England struggles more and more to stay in possession. Not that they don’t still put up a fight, by the sound of it. Lenihan heading for the hoops - ow! Well-aimed Bludger from Raymond, Lenihan gets the Quaffle away to Barry just in time but doesn’t manage to dodge, takes the full force of the hit right in the stomach!” The crowd groans in sympathy. “Lenihan’s heading for the ground, while the game continues, Barry shoots - saved by the Keeper! England in possession, Hassan dodging round O’Mahony and ducking Fitzsimons’ Bludger…”  
  
The commentator does a good job of making it sound exciting, but I can’t help but yawn. I’m sure it’s amazing to watch - it’s clear from the commentary that the play is rather faster than that of any league game, and there are plenty of clever maneuvers and stuff - but all the commentary could be condensed to “Ireland is beating England by a lot. Every now and then, someone gets hit by a bludger.”  
  
“Bell’s entered a dive!” calls the commentator. At last, a bit of a change! And Bell is our Seeker, so if he’s spotted the Snitch first, maybe we could just scrape the game. The score’s two hundred and ninety to one hundred and seventy, and to be honest it would be pretty unfair for England to win now, but the rules of the game are such that we can still win, and I wouldn’t have any objection...  
  
“Connolly’s not far behind, and they’re racing for the Snitch - neck and neck, both pushing every last drop of speed out of those brooms. Is Bell still ahead? It’s impossible to tell - Bludger! Absolutely beautiful hit by O’Shea, forcing Bell to dodge without affecting Connolly - Alcock’s in there, sending the Bludger whizzing back, and if Connolly’s noticed it she’s not reacting - and Connolly has caught the snitch! Ireland have won by four hundred and forty to one hundred and seventy - ah!” The celebrations are interrupted by groans.  
  
“The Bludger just knocked Connolly off her broom,” Lily explains. “At least she was near the ground, but she landed hard. The Mediwizards are running out - she just waved a hand in the air, with the snitch! The rest of the Irish team are landing around her, England too, but she’s not getting up, just holding up the Snitch - I can’t see her any more, she’s surrounded by people.”  
  
“Well, would you get up after that?” I ask. “It’s not like she has to carry on playing - she’s caught the Snitch. Might as well not move until the mediwizards have come and fixed anything she’s broken. Then she can get up without it hurting.”  
  
“Yeah, true. She’s the team captain, though.”  
  
“And she’s sensible enough not to injure herself more.”  
  
“Mmm-hmm.”   
  
The Irish fans are singing again, as they have been for most of the match but louder now. “Four hundred and forty to one hundred and seventy,” mutters Dad, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for the English players. That’s a pretty big loss, even if you ignore that ridiculous one hundred and fifty points for catching the Snitch.  
  
“Connolly is back on her feet!” calls the commentator. “Ireland are celebrating, and shaking hands with England. Shaking hands with Alcock - no hard feelings between the captains, Alcock’s final Bludger was perfectly reasonable, hit before the Snitch was caught. A very clean, fair game. And Ireland take to the air for their victory lap as England make their way back off the pitch. Final score: Ireland - four hundred and forty, England - one hundred and seventy. And that’s the end of England’s World Cup bid, while Ireland proceed to the quarter-finals. They’ll be playing the Netherlands, who beat Bulgaria four hundred and sixty to two hundred and thirty yesterday, and that match will take place right here in three days’ time. Now, congratulations Ireland! Goodnight, and have a safe journey home.”  
  
We wander back to the tent in silence. There are Irish fans everywhere, singing and celebrating, and I can hear them from the tent way into the night. It’s only a first round match, and the result was pretty predictable, but that doesn’t stop them from celebrating. It is the home team, I guess. And I’m tired enough that I eventually drift off despite the noise. In the lower bunk, Rose is silent, though I don’t know whether she’s sleeping or not.  
  
I usually wake up early when I’m sleeping in the tent, but the next morning I’m stirred by Mum shaking my shoulder gently.  
  
“Go away,” I mutter sleepily, rolling over to turn my back on her.  
  
“Get up, Hugo,” she says, surprisingly sharply. “Rose has an appointment…”  
  
“Why do I have to get up? Rose never came to my hospital appointments.” And I’ve had plenty of appointments, at St Mungo’s, with people prodding me and muttering and telling me that they’re sorry but they can’t cure me. When I already knew they couldn’t cure me, because they gave up trying when I was a year old.  
  
“You are coming, so get up!” Mum snaps, before turning her attention to Rose. “Morning, Rosie. Let’s get you dressed and ready…” I swallow the bitter feeling that rises in my throat at the different tones she uses to address each of us. She’s worried about Rose, of course. She’d never normally order me to do something without explaining why.  
  
If Rose hadn’t been ill, everything would be normal and Mum wouldn’t be stressy.  
  
The moment the thought’s occurred to me, I hate myself for it. Rose didn’t ask to be ill - it’s not her fault. I know she’d rather be healthy, enjoying the World Cup properly, getting excited alongside Mum at all the sightseeing and historic artefacts (wizard and muggle), cheering England on in the match and groaning resignedly with the rest of us when they lost embarrassingly.  
  
I sit up in my bunk, reluctantly, and wait for Mum to take Rose through to the dining room of the tent. Our class have talked about camping at school, but I get the impression this is nothing like muggle camping - it’s more like living in a small house. Once they’ve gone and closed the door behind them, I drag on clothes and follow, scuffing my feet along the floor.  
  
I hesitate in the doorway. I can learn my way around new places quickly, but we’ve only been here a few days and I’m not confident yet. I hate walking around with arms outstretched (unless I’m playing zombies with my friends at school), but it’s better than crashing into things, so I take the few steps until my hand touches the table.  
  
Dad mutters a sleepy “good morning,” and Mum doesn’t say anything at all but just plonks a bowl of porridge in front of me. She slides a spoon across too, and picking it up I pick at my breakfast.  
  
“Oh, eat it properly,” Mum sighs in exasperation after about fifteen seconds. I sigh and take a small taste.  
  
“Can I have more sugar?”  
  
“May I have more sugar, please,” Mum corrects.  
  
“Yeah, whatever. May I have more sugar, please.”  
  
“No, you have plenty.” I scowl.  
  
“I said please!”  
  
“And I said you have plenty. Eat up! We have to go.”  
  
“I don’t like it.”  
  
“You liked it yesterday.”  
  
“There was more sugar yesterday.”  
  
“No there wasn’t.”  
  
“Was.”  
  
“Are you going to eat it or not?” Mum snaps.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Fine, go hungry then.”  
  
Unexpectedly, she doesn’t make me eat but helps Rose finish then makes us all gather round the portkey. This trip involves a lot of travelling by portkey, because apparently it’s easier on Rose than side-along apparation, and this is one special condition that I don’t object to. Travelling by portkey is uncomfortable, but it’s not as bad as apparating.  
  
The smell of the reception at St Mungo’s Research Centre is familiar by now - bitter herbs, not quite managing to mask the faint strains of potions ingredients from elsewhere in the building. We sit down while we wait for the Healer to arrive, on seats of sticky fake leather, listening to the receptionist flicking through sheets of paper and people moving around at the other ends of corridors.  
  
It might be a hospital, of a sort, but it’s completely different from the main St Mungo’s. I’m glad of that, because I have far too many memories of St Mungo’s and it’s never a place I’ve enjoyed being. In the hospital, there are people everywhere, a chaos of healers and patients which is constantly moving and changing and is impossible to get my bearings in. Here, it’s almost empty, the odd researcher wandering through with a friendly word to the receptionist but otherwise no one.  
  
I can hear Mum tapping her foot, and as the minutes tick by she sighs softly. It’s not like her to be impatient, but she’s fidgeting next to me. Every time a door opens, she tenses up, and eventually she stands up and approaches the desk.  
  
“Excuse me,” she says, her tone a little sharp. “Someone - Healer O’Hare, I believe - was supposed to meet us here fifteen minutes ago. Has there been a change of plan?”  
  
“I doubt it,” replies the receptionist calmly. “He’ll be along soon.”  
  
“He was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago…”  
  
“Ah, sure, just take a seat. He’ll be along soon.”  
  
Mum pauses a second, before reluctantly returning to her chair. She mutters something about “punctuality” and “professionalism”, before resuming the foot-tapping. I try, in vain, to ignore her.  
  
The door opens and slow footsteps enter. A man greets the receptionist, and she responds warmly as he continues walking and stops in front of us.   
  
“Morning,” he says, “you must be Hermione and Ron.” Mum sniffs slightly as she stands, but doesn’t say anything more than a polite greeting. “And this is Rose, of course, and… Hugo, I believe? I’m Neil Callaghan…”  
  
“Where’s Healer O’Hare?” Mum asks impatiently. “We’ve seen him on all our previous visits.”  
  
“Ye’ll be seeing Colm again later,” the man says, seemingly oblivious to Mum’s less-than-polite tone. He leads the way from the reception, following what I’m pretty sure is a different route to the one we’ve followed in the past. “I’m a senior researcher here, and Colm’s supervisor. I’d have seen ye before, but I also represent the centre on the Draoithe - that’s our government…”  
  
“I know how the Irish Ministry works,” Mum interrupts. Neil Callaghan seems slightly amused as he continues.  
  
“My apologies; most British visitors don’t. Well, most of my days are spent trying to keep the country going in a vaguely straight line, sadly leaving little time for my work here, and for the last few weeks I’ve been taking advantage of the summer recess to travel and attend conferences in other countries. Now at last I’m back here to catch up on my teaching and research duties - and of course to see this young lady.” He must have pulled a face at Rose or something, because she giggles. Rose never used to giggle.  
  
“So, Healer… Callaghan, was it?”  
  
“Technically Senior Healer Callaghan, Professor Callaghan, or Warlock Callaghan… I’ve far too many long titles. Just call me Neil.” Healer O’Hare never told us to call him by his first name - he never actually told us what to call him. Neil is far more confident. “Come into my office.”  
  
Unlike Healer O’Hare - unlike every other Healer I’ve known, in fact - Neil doesn’t start by examining Rose. Instead, he invites us all to sit down on a couple of sofas, and settles himself down in between me and Rose.  
  
“Make yerselves comfortable. I want to talk to ye for a bit, to start off with. Hugo, what do you enjoy doing?”  
  
I start, not expecting to be addressed. This appointment is supposed to be about Rose. “Um, I play the piano and the harp.”  
  
“Lovely! Are you any good?”  
  
“Well, I’ve been playing the harp for less than a year, but Mrs Roy - that’s my teacher - says I’m a quick learner. Mr Greg says the same about the piano, and I’ve been playing that for longer.”  
  
“I used to play the bodhrán, when I was a lad,” says Neil. “We had a little band - a couple of friends played the fiddle, and another had a harp. I just banged away on my little drum, tried to stay vaguely in time with the beat. That’s the limit of my musical talent, though I always wish I’d had the chance to learn the fiddle.”  
  
“What is a fiddle?” I ask, unable to stop myself. “I’ve heard people mention them lots of times, but nobody’s ever told me what they actually are.”  
  
“Oh, it’s another name for a violin. Folk musicians call them fiddles.”  
  
“That’s stupid.” What’s the point in having two names for the same thing?  
  
“Sure, can’t be logical all the time or it’d get boring. How about you, Rose? Do you play anything?”  
  
“No, Rose never went in for music,” Mum says when Rose doesn’t respond immediately. Neil hushes her.  
  
“That’s a shame. Do you like music, Rose? Yes? Do you like listening to Hugo play?” Apparently Rose is communicating with nods or something, because Neil seems to be getting satisfactory responses.  
  
“How about songs? Do you know any songs? How about something Mum or Dad used sing to you?” He gives her a chance to respond, but she doesn’t, and he addresses Dad instead. “Ron, you used sing to them when they were small?”  
  
“Hermione was better at it than me,” he says quickly.  
  
“Both of you, can you remember Rose’s favourite song? Sing it for us.”  
  
Mum and Dad apparently have one of their silent conversations, before Dad laughs and sits forward.  
  
“Whatever happens, we’ll wear our colours proud…” I burst out laughing, and so does Neil. Well, it’s a song everyone in our family knows, which Dad even used to sing to us as a (thoroughly ineffective) lullaby.  
  
“...however long it takes, the Cannons will get there in the end!” I join in on the last line. Neil carries on laughing.  
  
“Cannons fans, eh? I’m a Kestrals fan, myself. But we’re steering into dangerous territory with Quidditch talk… many of my colleagues celebrated a little hard last night.”  
  
Dad sniffs.  
  
“Ireland... better,” says Rose suddenly, speaking for the first time since we met Neil. Neil doesn’t sound surprised or impressed, but acts as though it’s perfectly normal.  
  
“Ah, good to see someone here’s got sense. Can you help me convince these poor patriotic fools, Rose?”  
  
“Ireland… better. Lots better.”  
  
“Traitor,” Dad accuses her playfully.  
  
“I…” she flounders and trails off.  
  
“Ron!” Mum says accusingly. “He doesn’t mean it, Rosie, he’s only teasing…”  
  
“Why don’t you tell Dad why Ireland were better?” suggests Neil, cutting across Mum. Rose doesn’t answer, and we’re interrupted by my stomach growling. I suddenly remember my refusal to eat breakfast.  
  
“Cake?” asks Neil, getting to his feet. “Hugo?”  
  
“Um, yes please.”  
  
“Rose? How about you? And are Mum and Dad allowed any?”  
  
“Nice,” whispers Rose, ignoring the question. And it is nice, extra chocolaty and moist and generally just right. I sit there licking the stickiness off my fingers as Neil questions Rose on her food preferences. It occurs to me to wonder, yet again, what the point of his questions actually is. It’s nothing like any healer’s appointment I’ve been to before. But Rose is talking more than she has since she came home - even if she’s still not saying much - so I guess he knows what he’s doing.  
  
“And did you have a nice birthday cake last year?” he asks her, when they’ve exhausted what they each had for dinner last night.  
  
“Um… Mummy made it,” says Rose. My mind jumps back to the birthday in question, almost a year ago. Rose has always moaned that she came really close to being the oldest in the year but instead she’s the youngest. A year ago, her eleventh birthday was a kind of goodbye before she left for Hogwarts. We knew big change was approaching, we just didn’t know how big. Her twelfth birthday, in a few days… I’d completely forgotten about it. Surprisingly enough, I’ve had other things on my mind.  
  
“What kind was it?” Neil prompts.  
  
“Um, van-an-i…” Rose stumbles over the word.  
  
“Vanilla?” Rose appears to nod again. “Oh, lovely! Do you always have vanilla, or was it just last year? What about the year before.”  
  
“Chocolate,” says Rose happily.  
  
“And before that?”  
  
“Um…” Rose trails off, her voice cracking. “Don’t… don’t know…” Suddenly she’s gone from happy excitement to complete hopelessness, in the space of just seconds. I feel a rush of anger at Neil.  
  
“Can’t remember? Ah well, you’d only have been - how old, nine? I can’t remember what I was doing aged nine!” Rose giggles. “Cheeky! Think about it, do you have any idea? What did you do for that birthday? Did you go somewhere nice, or just have friends round? Or just a special tea with a birthday cake?”  
  
“Don’t know,” mutters Rose, then repeats more clearly “don’t know! Trying… trying… don’t ‘member lots of things.” She’s getting worked up, her voice becoming more shrill. “Was ill… felt yucky… then…”  
  
“Has anyone told you what’s happened?” Neil interrupts her. “No? You’re after having disease called cerebrumous spattergroit. It made you very confused and meant you forgot a lot of things. You were in bed for a very long time, which is why your legs got weak. The disease also affected your coordination, making it even harder to walk. That’s why you have to use that chair. You know the exercises you have to do? They’re to make it so you can walk again. You’ll be able to move normally before long, don’t worry.”  
  
Why did we not tell Rose these things before? She must have been confused and terrified, not knowing why she was in the state she was and not knowing how long she’d be stuck like that. It must have been terrifying. And she couldn’t find the words to ask.  
  
“The disease also made you lose the ability to talk, at first. Now you’re struggling to remember words, aren’t you? They’ll come back over time. You can always learn them again. And words aren’t the only things you’ve forgotten. You don’t remember people, or places. And of the people you do remember, you’ve forgotten a lot about them. All the little quirks you’d come to understand are confusing again, and people you know well feel a bit like strangers. It’s stressful, isn’t it? Well, I’m trying to help you get the hang of normal life again. It’ll take a while, and you’re probably not going to get all your memories back, but you’re not always going to be scared and confused.”  
  
Considering how relieved I feel at the words, I can’t imagine how much they must mean to Rose. I knew some of the facts, the basics of why she was ill, but she didn’t even have that, and she was the one who was ill. Now everything’s been laid out clearly, in simple facts, both the situation and the plan. Perhaps the most reassuring thing is that there is a plan - this isn’t a problem with an easy solution, but Neil knows what to do.  
  
We’re interrupted by a knock on the door, but Neil seems to have finished anyway. “Well,” he says, standing up, “I’ll let ye get on. That’ll be Colm at the door for ye.” He opens the door and guides us out with cheery goodbyes, and Healer O’Hare meets us there and leads the way, barely speaking, to his own office. The rest of the appointment is conventional, me sitting with Mum and Dad at the side of the room while Healer O’Hare asks questions and casts spells.  
  
“That first bit was a waste of time,” mutters Mum when we arrive back at the campsite. “I’ve heard of Warlock Callaghan - he’s well respected as a politician, but maybe he should just stick to the politics.”  
  
“I like him,” says Rose. “He’s nice.”  
  
Mum sniffs. “Maybe, but is he any good as a healer?”  
  
“He’s more qualified than any of us,” I point out. “Why don’t you wait and judge him on results?” But I already know some of the results: Rose is happier, more relaxed than any previous appointment. That’s worth a lot.


End file.
